


the last stone of the path

by valety



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anxiety, Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - C-PTSD, Gen, POV Second Person, Past Child Abuse, Post-Pacifist Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 14:09:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9238406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valety/pseuds/valety
Summary: Chara tries to get used to the world again, but recovery is not always as straightforward as they'd like.





	

**Author's Note:**

> *plays ukulele with my teeth* warnings for depictions of anxiety and panic attacks (specifically agoraphobia), references to past child abuse/neglect, dissociation, and brief references to disordered eating. also, warnings for some very minor medical stuff jic - references to doctors, medication, etc, but nothing graphic or particularly serious
> 
> in which chara gets some of my health problems + anxiety issues bc it’s their turn to be a hot mess who actually needs to work on themselves and not just inflict it upon those around them
> 
> title comes from [this poem](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/43155) because I'm on a "poetry as titles" kick lately

The first attempt finds you standing frozen at the cooler, staring blankly at the shelves that hold the milk and eggs and butter—accoutrements of daily life that anybody, even you, should be capable of getting without incident. Even so, your knuckles clench chalk-white and your lungs contract in a kind of fear. There are too many strangers all around you, arms bumping up against yours as they reach past and around you. It’s like you don’t exist, and if you don’t exist, then you logically can’t move.

You don’t black out or get sick that day, but you leave without the milk, head bowed and shoulders hunched as you hurriedly exit the store, and that feels like an even greater failure.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The problem is: the world you left behind is not the world that you return to.

But it’s fine. You are adaptable.

At least, you tell yourself you are.  But there are some things that you _can’t_ bear, no matter how much you grit your teeth and say that you’ll endure. Like the air—smoke and smog and gasoline, everyday poisons that you’d grown unaccustomed to in the clean (if stifling) air of the Underground. You try and tell yourself that you can cope, but your chest aches like one enormous bruise sometimes, and in the end, you’re given a small blue inhaler and medicine that tastes like bug spray.

(Privately, you think how funny it is that you can no longer survive in the world you’d grown so tired of, once upon a time.)

The first time you were forced to acknowledge you need help to stay alive happened shortly after your return, when you heard Toriel anxiously discussing something on the phone while you were theoretically in bed. You never found out just who she was talking to, but you suspect that it was either Sans or Asgore, judging from how worried she allowed herself to be. You couldn’t make out exactly what she was saying, only a handful of words— _doctor_ and _immune,_ maybe—but when you found yourself being bundled up into the family car and driven to the clinic a few days later, you were hardly surprised.  

You were stabbed with approximately ten thousand needles that day. Vaccinations, of course, but they took your blood as well, and made you stand on a scale, and performed all kinds of tests while Toriel watched over you carefully, like you might break at the first hint of carelessness on the part of the doctors. You felt like a pin cushion by the time you were done, but they gave you a lollipop afterwards and you eagerly accepted. You’re not one to turn down sweets, no matter the circumstances.

You find out later that Frisk had undergone much the same thing back when _they’d_ first returned to the surface. It had been a lot worse for them, too, as for the longest time, they’d been restricted to a liquid diet. For them, it had been going on much longer, and they hadn’t had monster food—insufficient as it is for humans—to try and supplement what they were lacking.

It’s almost enough to comfort you, in an ugly, spiteful sort of way, except…they’re better now. They still take vitamins in the morning, but you’re the only one with specially prepared and portioned meals these days, the only one with regular appointments, the only one that others look at with that _pity_ in their eyes, the pity that leaves you feeling small and helpless. They don’t look at you and see only your scars and bruises anymore, but they still see something weak, something pathetic, and it makes you want to scream and cry and _rage_ until nobody will dare to even look at you, let alone to try and pity you.

You’re not very good at that kind of thing yet.  

Still, there are things you can control, and things you can’t. You can’t control the fact that you really d _o_ need your bug spray medicine sometimes. You can’t control the fact that doctors look at you with that clinical gleam in their eye and recommend you get more bloodwork done every time you dare to hope the tests are finished. You can’t control the fact that Toriel will nag at you to take your hand sanitizer with you every time you leave the house, or that she’s already planning your flu shot for next fall, or how terrified she seems to be whenever you so much as cough.

You _can_ control whether or not feeling someone’s eyes on you makes you burst into tears. You _can_ and _will._ You may not be able to control some things, but you can control _this,_ and going out in public, despite your hate, despite your fear, is something you refuse to let go.  

It’s not your fault, anyway, you think unhappily as you stare up at your bedroom ceiling on those nights you cannot sleep. The world has changed without you. There’s even less room for you now than there was before. It’s like everything is trying to edge you out, to give you the hint that you’re not wanted. That kids like you don’t belong here.

You don’t know why you’re still trying, but you keep trying anyway.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The second attempt finds you at the grocery store. The trip is perfectly normal, perfectly routine. Toriel and Asriel and Frisk are there and you’re _safe._ You _know_ you’re safe. But as you’re standing in the bakery section, examining the fresh-baked loaves in search of the freshest loaf of all, a stranger bumps into you from behind. One minute you’re breathing deeply of the fresh-baked bread smell and the next you’re staring at a man you do not know as he smiles, pats your head, and says _sorry ‘bout that, kid._

By the time you’ve finally calmed down, you’re home. You’re home and can’t remember how you got there. You _can’t remember,_ and somehow, that’s even worse than the fact it happened at all. All you want is to feel like you’re in control of your own life, but something as simple as a clumsy stranger can tear you out of it completely.

“It is okay,” Toriel tells you, rubbing your back soothingly as you cling to her that night, sobbing. Her hands are large, and soft, and covered in fur; it’s impossible to mistake them for a human touch, so you let her hold you, let her offer comfort, don’t shirk away from the warmth that she provides. “We will take it slow.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

She says that you can take it slow, but it’s around then that Toriel starts to talk to you about maybe possibly going to see a different kind of doctor.

The clinic hadn’t been that bad because there had been monsters there as well. The monsters had seemed okay, even if they were sniffling or cradling injured limbs, and so you’d known that it was safe for you as well. But at the office of the Other Doctor, there are only human children, human parents, human staff, and somehow, they all seem to warp and twist and grow until you’re curled up on your chair and rocking, leaving Toriel to pick you up and carry you away.

“We shall go back when you are ready,” Toriel says, as though it’s a given that you’ll go back someday. But privately, you swear you never will. You don’t want to have to bare your wounds to a stranger, no matter how helpful Toriel appears to think it would be.  

You’re the only one of the three of you who doesn’t return to that office anytime soon. Frisk has a woman they speak to regularly, and although they often come back crying, they do so with a smile on their face, ready to collapse into the arms of whoever they see first upon returning home. They never talk about their sessions, leaving you unsure of whether or not this is a good thing, but you’re always ready for a hug if they appear to need it.

Asriel, at least, is more openly unhappy about his, even if he won’t complain to you directly. He has to go more often, and eventually he’s given pills to take each morning, but when you mention it, he always smiles and says he doesn’t mind, despite how much you see him grumbling to Toriel and Frisk when he doesn’t think you’re listening.

You wish he’d be more honest with you, but it still makes you feel a little better to know you’re not the only one who’s bitter they need help. And although you remain adamant about not wanting to see a therapist—not yet, anyway—the little bit of common ground that taking your pills together every morning gives you somehow seems to make your footing ever so slightly sturdier.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

You wish that you could say the third time was the charm. That’s the way it works in stories, with the third attempt always being the most successful. There’s almost no point in bothering with the first and second tries; if there was any way of skipping directly to the third, then everyone with sense would absolutely do that. But the truth is, it takes you far more tries than you can count.

Still, you don’t give up. There’s so little you have any sort of power over. Even though it makes you choke, one way or another, you’ll find a way to go out in public. 

You do your best to follow Toriel’s advice. You take it slow, building up your strength. The grocery store had been too much too soon, but the park isn’t that bad—there are people, but they’re far away, and there are monsters making snow sculptures for you to look at while Frisk attempts to climb a hill and Asriel gets into a snowball fight with strangers.

The library isn’t all that bad either because there are books to lose yourself in. It’s almost nostalgic; when you were younger, you’d often hide in the library to avoid having to go home, and now, you can’t quite shake the feeling that libraries equal safety. There are other patrons occasionally, but they’re quiet and keep to themselves, and so the library becomes something like your personal training ground—a place to become acclimated to other humans after over a century of sleeping Underground.

And at last it’s January, and cold, and that means hot chocolate has become a necessity for kids like you. And one day, Frisk manages to snatch up the last packet of the marshmallow stuff—or you gave it to them, whatever—and that means _somebody_ has to go to the store.

Well, not really. But it’s an opportunity, at least, and you’ve been waiting for an opportunity.

As you’re buttoning up your coat, you remind yourself that this is something that you need to do. You need to know if you can handle it. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life huddled indoors with your medicine, too delicate and timid to face the sun after having longed to see it with your family for so very long. If you’re going about this whole ‘recovery’ thing all wrong, then you need to _know,_ so that you can try and find another way _._

Toriel only agrees to let you go unsupervised if you’re not actually by yourself, meaning that you wind up accompanied by Asriel and Frisk. Although you put up a fuss, making a big show of not needing to be babied, you’re secretly relieved. It’ll be easier to have somebody with you. If Toriel’s the one holding your hand, you’ll feel weak, but it’s different with them—you’ve known what it was like to be a part of both their hearts.

As you set out, it’s you who’s in the middle of your little handholding formation, with Asriel and Frisk on either side. You don’t think it’s intentional—you think the two of them just wanted to hold your hands, the babies—but again, it helps, more than you’ll ever admit. It makes you feel like the leader, like you’re the one escorting _them,_ even though the entire trip is for _your_ sake. Even if it’s a lie, you’ll take any extra strength that you can get

The store you go to is not a proper grocery store. It’s a convenience store, one that’s relatively close to the house and small enough so as to hopefully not feel immediately overwhelming. Even so, it takes you a long time to work up the nerve to go inside. For a while, you simply stand outside the entrance, breathing in and out as deeply as you can. Frisk drapes themselves over your shoulders while you do so, patting your head, while Asriel holds your hand and looks fidgety, as though he wants to do something as well but isn’t sure just what.

You want to reassure him, but you can’t. You’re too busy watching humans filter in and out of the store and flinching every time one of the bigger ones gets too close to you. With every flinch, it’s like your internal timer resets. _Just another minute,_ you tell yourself, but then somebody almost bumps you and you have to start again. But at last you suck in a final steadying breath and charge ahead, leaving Asriel to yelp and stumble after you while Frisk clings to your shoulders and drags their legs behind them.

Inside, the store is bright, almost fluorescent. Immediately you’re struck with a pulse of warmth from the crowd of strangers churning before you like a grotesque fleshy ocean. Something poppy-sounding plays over the loudspeaker, but it’s interrupted shortly afterwards by a crackly reminder about the store’s loyalty card. Everything is far too loud for you, but then Asriel asks “What are we getting again?”, gently tugging you out of your overstimulated daze.

“Hot chocolate,” you reply. “Marshmallows.”

You can’t help but feel a little foolish saying it. They’re not necessities. They’re not a _reason_ for you to come out here and risk having another panic attack. You just wanted an excuse to try, and this is the feeble one you’re clinging to. But Asriel nods and Frisk drums their fingertips against the top of your head, so you guess they have your approval. You’re not being judged, at least. They might secretly think you’re useless, but they don’t seem to think you’re stupid.

You grab a basket from the rack by the door and pass it to Frisk. Their chest puffs out with something like pride as they accept it, but Asriel looks peeved and says, “I can carry stuff too.”

You almost roll your eyes at that. “Grab another basket then,” you say briskly. “We can have one for hot chocolate and one for marshmallows.”

You’re joking, but Asriel actually does so, and the look that he and Frisk exchange afterwards is so endearingly pleased with themselves that you can’t bring yourself to say anything mocking. Instead you give a huff—the closest you’ll let yourself get to laughing today —and start walking towards the grocery aisle.   

Your gait is an awkward one. You walk with your head bowed and arms held stiffly by your sides, trying to ignore the feeling of a dozen watchful eyes staring at you as you move through the overcrowded store. The only thing that keeps you moving forward rather than ducking into an empty aisle or stopping altogether is the presence of the monster and the child trailing after you like ducklings. They wouldn’t judge you, but if you stopped, they might crash into you or each other, and hasn’t it always been easier, anyway, to make it about anybody but yourself?

You just have to power through it, you remind yourself. You just have to grit your teeth and barrel onwards without thinking of the _hows_ and _whys._

And as you’re telling yourself that, you almost crash into a perilously overfilled grocery cart.

 _“Excuse_ me,” says the sour-faced old woman it belongs to.

You fumble backwards a step, pulse skittering, but a moment later you’ve collected yourself enough to smile, fold your hands, and say, “I apologize. I should have been more careful.”

“See that you are from now on,” the woman says in a scolding sort of tone, the one that every human adult automatically adopts whenever irritated with a child.

Your smile remains and you feel your face grow even more masklike, but a litany of _fuck you_ s floods your mind, particularly once Asriel catches up to you with a “Chara, don’t run ahead like that!” and the woman’s eyebrows fly nearly out of sight.

Once she and her too-full cart have moved on, leaving the aisle blissfully empty, you say, “I hate her.”

“Why? Did something happen?” Asriel asks as Frisk falls into step beside him. He sounds curious, but not particularly surprised. He’s probably used to your outbursts, you think bitterly. Still, he’s looking at you with such concern that you can’t bring yourself to be truly angry. Not at him, at any rate.

“Not really,” you confess. “But you can tell, with that type. We’ll be a story for her church group later.”

“Do you want me to say something to her?” he asks. There’s a gleam in his eye and an edge in his voice that means he’s thinking of something more than conversation, and despite the lingering tension in your shoulders, you almost giggle. You can’t imagine Asriel as he is now ever tearing anyone apart the way he occasionally threatens to, but it’s sweet that he would offer.

You shake your head and he appears to settle down. You, meanwhile, are left feeling not nearly on edge as you had moments ago.

You fill Frisk’s basket with hot chocolate mix, then Asriel’s with a packet of jumbo marshmallows. You feel silly, but they seem pleased.

The two of them flank you as you make your way to the front to pay and their presence doesn’t feel nearly as restrictive as that of the strangers who have crowded you before. They’re like a buffer, shielding you from others without muting everything the way your other shields have done. Maybe that’s why this is the furthest that you’ve made it yet, you think as you join the check-out line. Before, you’d always wound up fleeing, either escaping on your own or freezing up entirely, forcing someone else to help you get away. Without any sort of armour, everything had felt _too much,_ but with your friends beside you, it’s easier to endure the pressures of the world.

It’s still ridiculous, though, you think as your nails bite into the skin of your palms. Before you’d fallen, there had been plenty of occasions where you’d gone to the store alone, usually to run a late-night errand for the woman you had lived with. So why had it been easier then? Nothing had scared you; you’d been like stone, solid and unflinching, no matter the danger that had come your way. There had been something almost comforting about it, even if you’d been unmoving.

It had been easy, then, but now, everything is _hard._

Why? _Why? Why_ had things been so much easier then, and not now that you’re safe, and loved, and _happy?_

“Chara,” comes a voice beside you, muffled, as if through glass.

You raise your head. Asriel is peering at you, concern still bright in his eyes. Beside him, Frisk is solemn.

“What?” you ask, pretending not to see their worry.

Asriel bites his lip, but Frisk slips their hand into yours. You take it automatically. You have to. The static rising in your brain leaves no room for thought. The trembling in your legs is rising too, spreading to your arms.

And somewhere, a child starts to cry.

At the sound, you flinch so violently that Asriel jumps, but you couldn’t apologize even if you wanted to. Frisk takes your other hand, then, and in low voice only you can hear, says “We can go.”

You can’t speak, not now that your throat has closed up so completely. Instead, you nod. Thankfully, they don’t look angry or disappointed. It wouldn’t have made sense for them to be upset, but rational thought doesn’t seem to be cooperating with you at the moment. You try to focus only on the pressure of their hands while Asriel carries the baskets off somewhere, and then only on the movement of one foot after the other while Frisk leads you outside.

For a heartbeat, you find yourself thinking _it’s just like before._ Frisk steering, you tagging along, unseen and unheard by all but the small figure in blue. But it’s not actually like that at all, because this time, Frisk stops and helps you sit down on the curb outside the store, letting you rest rather than dragging you along against both of your wills when you want nothing more than to fold into yourself and disappear.

They rub your back as you heave. By the time you can feel the bite of frost on your cheeks, reminding you to adjust your scarf, you’ve calmed down enough to say, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Frisk says, still rubbing your back. It occurs to you that it’s unusual for them to speak out loud. You’re not sure whether you ought to feel grateful that they’re doing so for you or guilty that you’ve forced them into it.

Asriel emerges shortly afterwards and sits down beside you on the curb. He makes no attempt to touch you, not until you reach for him, at which point he pulls you into a bear hug. Or a goat hug, you suppose.

“What’s so funny?” he asks when your shoulders start to shake at the thought.  

“Nothing,” you reply, pressing your face even more firmly into his chest, as though that alone could somehow block out the adrenaline-induced hysteria you’re beginning to feel creep upon you. “Me. I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not,” Frisk says gently, once more draping themselves over your shoulders, smushing you between them and Asriel.

You almost choke with laughter at that. “I am, actually,” you correct with a grin that neither one of them can see. “This whole thing was stupid. Forget it. Let’s go home.”

“Okay,” Asriel agrees, but from your shoulders, Frisk says “We didn’t get the hot chocolate, though.”

“Do we _need_ hot chocolate?” Asriel asks in a different sort of tone, one that’s directed solely at you.

You feel him shift so that he can look down at you, but you keep your face hidden so that you don’t have to meet his eyes. “We don’t need it,” you say. “Anyway, I said we should go home.”

“But you _wanted_ it,” Frisk presses. They’re not sulking, as far as you can tell; they’re actually playing with your scarf, flapping it gently as they talk. For some reason, that’s almost worse.

“I did, but I messed up,” is your curt reply. You try and sound annoyed, but make no effort to push them off of you. In fact, you almost want to lean against them, or maybe pull them closer, to let them and Asriel hold you together since you obviously can’t do it by yourself. “I failed, so it is time for us to go."

The flapping stops. “You didn’t, though,” Frisk says, sounding genuinely confused. “You’re still here. You can just go back inside.”

“Don’t be stupid,” you retort in a voice so taut that it feels like it may break at any moment. “I tried and couldn’t do it. I will try again later.” 

“Can later be now?” Frisk asks, still sounding more curious than pushy or judgemental, and you don’t know how to respond, not when they won’t give you an excuse to be defensive.  

“The crying people left,” Asriel offers helpfully. “Does that make a difference?”

“It doesn’t,” you snap.

But internally you wonder, _does_ it?

You had been doing fairly well, you remember. You had actually been thinking that seconds before cracking. Tension had been thrumming through you, sure, but you’d been holding yourself together, with Asriel and Frisk nudging things back into place every time they’d begun to slip away from you. The child crying hadn’t been the straw that broke the camel’s back so much as it had been the drop that had finally caused the cup to overflow, but you had stepped outside, had poured a little out, had put yourself back together again. If the crying child is gone now, then there might not be anything left to fill you with unease.

Maybe there _isn’t_ any reason why later can’t be now. If you went back inside and grabbed your basket from whatever corner Asriel had stashed it in, then…couldn’t you simply finish your errand, despite this hiccup? This hiccup that you’re gradually beginning to realize was relatively minor, all things considered?

It feels almost unspeakably odd to be considering trying again so soon.

You’d _been_ trying again, though. Over and over and _over_ again. And yet it had always ended with you cutting your losses and starting fresh, only to cut your losses once again the moment things went wrong.

You may not have been fully stagnant, but you still hadn’t been moving forward. You still hadn’t been making any progress. 

Even as the truth gradually begins to wash over you, you still can’t bring yourself to admit it. You remain silent. But as your fingers dig a little deeper into the back of Asriel’s coat, he says, “Actually, I think _I_ might want some hot chocolate.”

You lift your head, startled. He looks nervous, but adds, “You and Frisk hogged the entire box last time. I haven’t had any in weeks.”

“There,” Frisk says cheerfully, patting the top of your head as though they can’t tell what Asriel is doing. “That’s fine, isn’t it?”  

You’re not an idiot.

But.

“Well,” you say. Already the words are coming easier, following the path your friends have lain so thoughtfully out for you. “I guess if _you_ want some, then…we might as well.”

You stand up again with their help. Frisk takes your hand and pulls you upright, while you brace yourself against Asriel’s shoulders. But you walk back to the entrance by yourself, even though you’re once more flanked on either side, and despite everything, the one who once again steps through the door is still, and always will be, you.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The world you left behind is not the world that you return to. The you that you are now is not the you that you were then. But you are adaptable. You’ve always known that. You can adapt to both this new world and this new self. You can find a place for you to fit again, even if that place is not immediately obvious. Maybe not alone, but then again, you _aren’t_ alone. You’re surrounded by those who have welcome you into their fold, and maybe that’s just one of the many changes you are going to have to get used to.

Small steps, you tell yourself. So long as you continue making progress, then it doesn’t have to matter just how small, nor if you needed someone’s help along the way.

That evening you have hot chocolate, and you decide that, for now, you are content.


End file.
